In the land of Thorolund was born a cursed boy. The child named Sigurd bared upon him the dark sign, like so many before him. It as a tragedy to be sure; to his mother it meant her son was destined to be a monster; to his father it was a sign that Allfather Lloyd had turned his back on his child; to the rest of Thorolund it was a time bomb that on which a close eye must be kept; however, to Sigurd, though he was not aware of it at the time, it was an obstacle to be overcome.

Sigurd's life did not start off pleasant, for as a young boy, still no more than a full year old, his father, tormented by his wife's grief at birthing a monster, whisked the boy away in the night and, unable to end the life of a newborn, took the boy to a monastary tucked away in the near by mountains. Abandoning the 'monster' so dubbed by his mother, his father quickly stole back home to erase the boy from his memory.

It was a full two days before one of the monks heard the cries of the starving and freezing child. Rushing to the doors, Brother Markus scooped the baby boy up and took him in as an adopted son. It wasn't long before Markus found the mark, and not wanting to expose the boy for one of the accursed, he alone took care of the boy, not allowing him to vernture to far from his side. With no clue as to the boy's name, Brother Markus gave him the name Veron, a combination of the phrase Vereor Nox.

Under Markus' care, the newly named Veron learned many trades; blacksmitihing, fletching, tanning, fighting, sewing, and a plethora of other skills. These teachings took the boy into his teen years, and he began to grow stronger and stronger. Markus and the boy had developed a bond stronger than friends, and for all intents and purposes, Veron considered the monk his father. When Veron had reached the end of his teen years, Markus sat down with Veron and began a discussion that would change the boy's life further.

Markus explained-

A tournament approaches...it is on held in high esteem in Thorolund. The tournament is organized by the church and trained clerics and monks from all over Thorolund gather for a series of contests to determine if one is worthy of beginning training as the fabled Living Weapon. An instrument of Allfather Lloyd and a powerful warrior of faith. Throughout history very few of these legends have existed and non remain alive today, always having vanished into the realm of Anor Londo...

Eagerly Veron absorbed all the information he could. The chance to become something more than a Monk's child and venture outside the walls of the oppressive monatary was more than a dream. Markus, not needing anymore of a confirmation than his son's reaction, began his training once again, teaching him minor miracles and advanced fighting techniques he picked up from watching Paladins practice in the courtyards. Veron absorbed the teachings like a parched man drinking water. There was no doubt he was a natural.

In no time at all the tournament was upon them. Veron, understanding the basics of smithing, created his own armor and weapon for the tournament. A crudely shapen armor resembling that of the fabled Silver Knights of Gwyn, and a crude Zweihander. All in all, the ensemble wasn't horrible, but it didn't say 'Holy Man'. Markus was proud nonetheless.

---

The day of the tournament had arrived and Veron took a deep breath, cluthing his hand-me-down talisman in his left hand. He uttered a silent prayer to Lloyd and stepped into the dusty arena. The stands were roaring with applause and great white flages billowed above the arena. Scanning the crowd, Veron noticed the judges stand where a tall man wearing armor that looked like stone stood. His presence was intimadating and fierce, but there was no doubt of his rank. He was a holy knight in Havel's army, and Veron would guess ths man, like Havel, was a bishop.

The appalause from the other end of the arena erupted as the challenger stepped forth. It was obvious he was the crowd's favorite. Wearing golden armor and carrying a large morning star in his right hand, he also carried a long silver raiper in his left. Veron swallowed his fear and focused on his breathing. Gripping his sword with both hands he kept his eyes on his target who approached slowly towards him, holding his raiper before him as though challenging Veron to attack.

A loud metallic clang echoed across the field, signaling the fight to being. Without any hesitation, the challenger threw his weight behind his morning star and swung towards Veron. The attack was slow, and easy to side step. Taking the advantage, Veron brough his Zweihander down in an arc, but was inturuppted but a flick of the raiper, knocking the attack away with easy. A large, blunt pain blasted Veron across the chest as the Paladin countered with his morning star. Veron's armor dented, but did not give. The force was still enough to send him reeling backward. Another attack came from the Paladin, hoping to catch Veron still off balance. The strategy worked wonderfully, much to Veron's chagrin, and he went hurtling backwards, landing on the ground, staring at the sky.

There was a moment where he felt lost. Like a rowboat lost in a churning sea. What was he to do? Where was he to run? He felt an answer deep within, but he could not grasp it. Nor had he the time to dwell on it as the morning star landed inches from his head. Scrambling to get up, Veron righted himself and ran away from the Paladin, causing a roar of laughter from the crowd. What kind of holy warrior ran away?

You cannot be a hero with your back turned, you can only be a coward!

The resonating voice of Markus stopped him in his tracks. He turned and held up his sword, ready to fight once more. The Paladin, unphased, continued the assault, swinging his heavy weapon once again, but this time the blow was deflected, with the new opening, Veron delivered a sturdy kick to the challenger's chest, causing him to stagger back. With a heavy swing of the Zweihander, he caught the Paladin in the shoulder. With a grin he pulled the bloodied blade from the Paladin's shoulder, and feel to the ground.

He hit his knees in a daze and looked down at the silver Raiper sticking from his chest. Blood pooled in his armor and he felt the warmth drain from his veins. A buring drew his attention to the dark sign that marked him, and that was the last thing he felt as everything went black.

And the crowd cheered a thunderous applause.

---

Veron awoke with a start and a dull ache in his chest. His breathing was rapid and slightly labored. Struggling to a sitting position, Veron examined the uncomfort in his chest, and noticed his armor was severly dented and torn, with the dent pressing against his chest in a most painful way, causing his breathing to be labored. Quickly, he removed the warped plate and tossed it aside, not wanting to deal with the burden of useless armor. Once free of the metal that entombed his torso, Vernon noticed his shirt was still intact, save for a small hole above his heart where his opponent's Raiper landed the killing blow. With a scowl, Veron tore his gaze away from the mark and surveyed his surroundings.

Taking clues from the rubble around him, as well as the remaining walls of an ancient structure, it was obvious he was standing in what used to be a tower or shirne of somesort. A warm glow and pleasent crackle drew Veron's attention from the surroundings and to the pleasent little bonfire in the center of the ruins. With a first glance it was obvious something was strange about this fire, but Veron couldn't put a finger on exactly what. With a sigh of frustration and confusion, Veron sat before the fire and stared into it. He needed to gather his thoughts...

Well...I was stabbed through the chest...so I must have died...right? But where am I? This isn't Lloyd's domain...

Without thinking about it, Veron gripped his worn old talisman in his hand. A habit he picked up living in the monastary under Brother Markus...the man who taught him everything. Taught him about life, and about what happened after death...apparently he had been wrong. The thought the Markus outright lied even crossed the man's mind and it set aflame within him and feeling of pure anger. A feeling he had never truly felt...until now. In a fit, he tossed the talisman into the flames, watching it get consumed. As the symbol of Lloyd burned, a wave of panic over came Veron and he reached into the fire and pulled it out. Throwing it into the dirt, he stomped out the fire and cradled the talisman like a wounded child. As angry as he was, he must not forget who he is or where he came from. Tucking the Talisman away, Veron decided to take a look around.

There wasn't much to see. A lot of rubble and deteriorating pots. The most interesting area Veron discovered was a flooded chapel area. As he truged around in the somehow refreshing water, he caught a glimpse of his reflection. His face was no longer the one he remembered, but instead was that of a twisted, ragged creature. Much like a corpses dried, withered face. Once again his breathing became rapid and he examined the water, hoping this was some trick of the light. Quickly, he turned back towards the bonfire and retrieved his discarded chest plate, he took it to a nearby stone and began to grind the metal against the rock, polishing it with the friction. Taking it to the fire, he burnt away all escess dirt and grim, and then scrubbed it with his shirt.

The reflection wasn't perfect, as the metal was warped and dull, but it was enough to tell that the water told the truth. He looked a monster. All at once he knew. Markus taught him about the darksign, but he never would have guessed he was one of the cursed. Another fit of rage, but this time the chest plate was tossed off the cliff which the lazy ruins were nestled.

That was when he heard the sound of struggling footsteps. A man, waring the tell tale armor of a knight, staggered towards the bonfire. Coming from a slope that curved around the natural wall of the mountain. The closer the man staggered, the more obvious it was that he was wounded. Blood pooled around his feet as he approached. Veron, forgetting his dilemma, ran towards the man, wanting to help. The man stopped and readied a small, broken sword he held in his hand.

Stay back! Whether you are friend or devil, stay where you are!

His voice was weak, but it stopped Veron in his tracks. The wounded knight, obviously weary from his wounds. The Knight sought support on the edge of a nearby well. His breathing was labored and getting heavier. A moment later the Knight's strength gave out, causing him to collapse over the well, dropping his sword into its depths. There was a moment of piercing silence as Veron watched the Knights body grow cold in the embrace of death.

Slowly, Veron approached the corpse, and removed him form the edge of the well. He stripped the knight of his armor and refitted the leather straps to better accomadate the difference in stature. As he rummaged through the pockets of the fallen knight, he sensed something strange. A small presence within the knight. Unable to locate the source with just a glace, Veron began to search the night more intesely. After several sweeps over all the pockets and folds of the Knights clothes, Veron was getting frustrated. He knew there was something there. Something just out of his reach. Another eruption of anger and Veron slammed a fist into the corpse's chest.

There it was!

Whatever strange resonance Veron felt, it was coming from within the Knight. The idea of something so strange and powerful inside the body drove Veron to a new place mentally. He felt something begin to fray, and glimpsed the very edges of insanity. Out of greed he pounded the corpse's chest, his fingers itching to tear into the flesh, but it was fear that made him leap back and stop himself.

What was he doing? He looked down at the knight and said a silent prayer. He placed a hand on his forehead and slide it downward, closing the empty eyes of the warrior. With an audible sigh, the Knight's mouth opened suddenly. Veron jumped back, startled. He expected the body to reanimate and go on the offensive, but it never happened. Instead, from the mouth of the deceased a faint light began to glow. The light becage steadily brighter as a strange evanesscent orb rised above the cold lips of the dead man. This white orb, was soon followed by an equally bright, but some how black, black sprite. Interested, Veron examined and recognized the orbs as the source of the resonance he so fervidly sought.

Scooping up the tiny, fragile shades. Veron watched then fade into his rough, and parchment like flesh. All at once he felt a flood of warmth from withing him. Confused he returned to the bonfire and sat down, comtemplating the strange new feeling. As he focused on it, he realized the warmth was growing. Spreading to every inch of his husk-like skin. The surge grew more intense until he was certain the sprite would burn him from within.

Then it stopped.

Out of confusion, the man rubbed his eyes, but stopped short. His hand...they were back to normal. He didn't understand it, or even care at this point. He no longer looked a creature from the grave! Standing once again, he fought back the tears that threatened to break through his learned, stoic nature. He was human again...

---

That is where Veron's tale begins; however, it is only the beginning, and as such I will be updating this as time goes on. After all, he still needs to lose his faith in Lloyd and join the Dark Father's cause.

Further more if any one notices any grammatical errors or etc, pleace let me know via PM and I'll fix them.

WhatDoesThePendantDo? wrote:Don't be impressed by something like that Gazman. You got cheated out of your online gaming experience by an unscrupulous game exploiter. You didn't get "owned," you were robbed, there is a distinct difference.

Hmmm...I need some inspiration for Veron's story and how he became the Nameless Servant of the Great Lord Nito.

Anyone have any ideas? I won't take them verbatum, but I will be looking to them for inspiration...

What I had in mind was something that was hope crushing. Something happens to Veron, or something he witnesses crushes his faith and hope and sends him snowballing down a slope into the loving arms of the Dark Father.

WhatDoesThePendantDo? wrote:Don't be impressed by something like that Gazman. You got cheated out of your online gaming experience by an unscrupulous game exploiter. You didn't get "owned," you were robbed, there is a distinct difference.

Eystella closed the door behind her, leaning back on it with a breath. Finally her day was done, and she could work with her calling. She walked to her bed, the plain brown sheets giving nothing away, and dropped to her knees to retrieve the box. Just as she wa abtu to place her hand underneath she saw it. A small unassuming smudge on her floor. But she didnt make it. Her sword was in her hand in an instant, sweeping under the bed carving into the side of the box. She heard metal snap and a dart firing from the trigger, it firing itself into the thick bedding of her mattress. With the trap disarmed she swept her blade up to meet the assassin behind her."So you still have your edge" the voice remarked.She lowered her blade gingerly as she recognised the voice, "My lord" she replied "I did not expect a test.""There are many things we do not expect," the man replied "like this." He drew a sword from behind his back. Her sword, stolen from a darkstalker 2 weeks before.She held her gaze firm, restricting her anger. She was sure it had been hidden, that he could not have found it. "It is a good blade. And it will serve me well." there was no use pleading innocence, not in the brotherhood."You did well to hide it, and I have been busy this past fortnight, unable to keep track of your movements. I assume you found it just after the war. And have you made sure it is untainted? The blade of the corrupted may be corrupted itself.""I have tested it, and purged it, the blade is clean now.""Do not let your knights see you using it." He tossed the blade back to her, point first, and she had to twist her body to dodge it before grabbing the handle. By the time she had he was gone.

Hope you enjoy that. Been meaning to write it for a while. Viral I hope I got her name right and it fits wth the character.

Last edited by DoughGuy on Wed Jul 25, 2012 7:51 am; edited 1 time in total

_________________There's more to them - Want to know why your favourite NPC is in lordran? Find out here.Farewell to my Noble Knights, while we lived we were mighty. May we meet again in the next game.The post that started the legend XD

Im bumping this, because everyone else has a bad memory and I dont think Viral saw the story just above I wrote.

_________________There's more to them - Want to know why your favourite NPC is in lordran? Find out here.Farewell to my Noble Knights, while we lived we were mighty. May we meet again in the next game.The post that started the legend XD